


the musings of tenderness

by paperlesscrown



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017) RPF
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Inspired by Real Events, Sprousehart, riverdale rpf - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-05-25 18:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14983301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperlesscrown/pseuds/paperlesscrown
Summary: Sprousehart: glimpses, scribblings and one-off drabbles.





	1. i. in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive separately, but somehow, like a compass trained to her north, he will always find her. (Cole's POV)

The lights dimmed, and all eyes turned to the front as Grace Vanderwaal took to the stage.

Cole saw his chance. He weaved in and out of the crowd, looking for Lili. They had arrived separately, wishing to avoid any fallout from the Hawaii photos that had been released only days before. The Art of Elysium was an annual gala that raised money for an incredibly worthy cause, and they both hated the idea of attracting any undue attention from the main purpose of the evening.

Finally, he spotted her - a vision in her dress, her green eyes lit up by the reflection of the stage. He smiled softly to himself, and idly indulged the idea of seeing her again in white, perhaps one spring day, not too far off…

Ah, but these flights of fancy were nothing to the girl who now stood before him in the flesh. He stood a little way behind her, and saw her chin tilt slightly to the right, acknowledging his presence. They had both developed the uncanny ability of sensing each other in a room, like a compass point trained to the other’s north.

He stepped forward, clearing his throat and gently taking her hand. 

“Hey,” he whispered.

She smiled slightly before squeezing his hand back and interlacing her fingers with his.

“Hey, yourself,” she whispered back. 

They stayed like that for a while, holding hands in the dark as the soft strains of music floated out over the crowd. The song ended, and as the applause rose, he reluctantly let go of her hand, but then thought better of it. Boldly, he stepped in right behind her, his body nearly flush against hers, close enough to sense her pulse, to smell her skin, to kiss her, even, if he wanted to.

But perhaps he would save that for later tonight. For now, he just wanted to say one thing to her, before melting back into the crowd.

“You look beautiful tonight, Lils.”


	2. ii. baby, love me lights out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wants to see the Eiffel's lights; he was always going to come through, come hell or high water (Lili's POV).

You promised me the lights. **  
**

“I know it’s gonna be crazy,” you said on the morning of our flight. “But I’ll get you there.”

I looked over our schedule, doubted, but hoped against the odds anyway.

Our first day was filled with interviews and autographs and fans. On our first night, when I saw the glittering tower from our room, I turned to you.

“The lights, Cole,” I said. “See? I’ve seen them. It’s fine. You don’t have to take me.”

You shook your head. “Doesn’t count. Just wait.”

The second day was much of the same. Interviews, autographs, fans. We were grateful, but exhausted.

We lay down that night, unmoving, still in our convention clothes, too tired to even get up and get ready for bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Eiffel’s trademark glitter. I opened my mouth as I turned to you, but you interrupted me.

“Don’t even think about it.” Your eyes were closed, but somehow your hand found mine. “Come hell or high water, I’m getting you to those lights.”

…

We stumbled down to the hotel lobby in a fit of laughter, still coloured by the champagne we’d drunk in our room after we came home from dinner. The concierge on duty was surprised to see us. It was 3 in the morning, after all.

“ _Monsieur? Mademoiselle?_ A cab?”

“No need,” you said. “But can you tell us the quickest way to the tower from here?”

He looked surprised. “It is a long walk,  _monsieur._ Per’aps a little less than ‘alf an hour?”

You leaned against the lobby desk, all charm and panache. “Come on. Will you look at my girlfriend? Wouldn’t you want to spend hours in her company?”

He smiled. “To be young and in love. Of course, monsieur. Let me show you the safest route.”

…

Hand in hand, we walked the empty streets of Paris in the early hours of the morning, talking about everything and nothing at all. The stars were still out, and while there were people about, for the most part, we were alone.  _At long last,_  I thought.

At one point, I tired of my shoes and took them off, holding them by the straps. You were horrified by the thought of my feet getting an infection from the Parisian streets, rattling off a long story about that one time you were in Belgium on a dig and you thought you’d contracted gangrene (“Well. That’s just  _charming,_ Cole,” I said. “Thank you for the thought of your crusty toes as I try to enjoy Paris”). You shook your head adamantly and insisted on carrying me on your back. I was incredulous.

“In  _this dress_? Are you kidding me?”

“What? Just hitch it up a bit. Honestly, no-one’s around, and anyway, it’s nothing I haven’t seen.”

I rolled my eyes. Trust you to go from talking gangrene to allusions of nakedness within two sentences. “If this gets ripped or damaged, you’re paying for it.”

You give me your cockiest, most self-satisfied smile. “Lils. Let’s not kid ourselves. That dress was gonna get ripped or damaged anyway.”

I had to give that one to you. I laughed as I clambered onto your back, my arms tight around your neck. “Is this alright? You’re not gonna get tired?”

You scoffed. “Just hold on.”

We were right on the edge of the Champ de Mars, and the tower was so close - I swooned at the sight of it. I was about to swing my legs down to the ground, satisfied to see it from the distance, when you locked your grip more tightly under my knees. Puzzled, I nudged your shoulder with my chin. “Hey. What are you doing?”

“I promised you the lights,” you said. “And I’m giving you the lights. All of them. As close as we can get.”

“Cole…”

“Do you trust me?”

“Uh, yes, but—“

You didn’t wait for the rest of my answer. You took off running while I held on for dear life, laughing and screaming in your ear. I looked at the stars and the lights and I thought,  _my god, I’m in Paris with the man I love,_ and I screamed even louder and laughed with every ounce of boisterous energy I had left in me.

Finally, you set me down, right at the foot of the tower. My head was spinning, but you didn’t let up even for a second. You pulled me in for a dizzying, simmering kiss, your lips parting mine, the sparkling taste of champagne still lingering in our mouths. A short distance away, a group of drunk backpackers clapped. One of them shouted, “ _Amare_!” You broke away and laughed.

I smiled at you. “What does that mean?”

“‘Love’,” you replied. “In Italian.”

“Oh,” I said. “So you know anything else in Italian, Mr. I-Was-Born-In-Arezzo?”

“Yeah, I do.” You nuzzled into my neck. “ _Ti amo_.”

I felt drunk, not on champagne, but on you. “I know that one,” I said, grinning. “I love you, too.”

We both looked up, my head tucked right under your chin. We were at the foot of the Eiffel. The lights were so close, glittering brightly against an inky blue sky that was slowly giving way to the dawn.

“I promised you the lights, didn’t I?” you said, your arms encircling my waist as your head rested on my shoulder.

And that’s when I realised: I never really needed the  lights. Not when I’m around the brightest one. Not when I’m around  _you,_  Cole.

But I’ll keep that to myself for another day. We may be in Paris, but I’m reserving some romance for later on.

So instead, I turned to you and replied:

“You did.” I stood up on my toes, searching for your kiss. “And you came through.”


	3. iii. starstruck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She asks if he's starstruck at the Met Gala; his answer is unexpected. (Cole's POV)

He glances over the photo and decides that he looks as though he’s about to break out into a laugh. And, really, if he wasn’t so flabbergasted at the weight of being at  _the fucking Met Gala,_ he probably would - laugh, that is. At his sheer luck. At the fact that he was here, where he’d once just been a lowly intern, trying to figure out where he’d go next, what his plans were.

And her? She looked like she  _belonged_. Like she owned the museum. Like she’d been going to Met Galas her whole life. She was luminous and happy and serene, perfectly content in the knowledge that she was the most beautiful girl in the room.

In a flight of fancy, he imagines a time portal deep in the Met - a swirling vortex that would connect him back to his days as an intern, of tallying museum patrons and attending the service desk and handing out brochures. He chuckles at the thought of pulling Intern Cole out into 2018 and pointing at Lili in all her glowing, silver splendour.

“You see that?” he would tell him. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, buddy, but that’s gonna be your girlfriend in a few years.”

In response, Intern Cole would probably gawk and make a stupid joke and walk away in disbelief.

Maybe that’s what he was seeing here, in Kendall’s picture. Maybe this really was Intern Cole on the verge of giggling in incredulity at the fact that he got to hold and be close to this goddess.

Or maybe… it was just him. Plain old 2018 Cole, still in disbelief. That wasn’t so hard to imagine. After all, he’d been consistently rendered speechless at the sight of her tonight.

She would turn to him later and ask him if anyone at the Gala had made him feel starstruck yet. He was about to respond when she butted in on her own question, correcting herself.

“Ah, that’s a dumb question, actually,” she said. “Come on, you grew up surrounded by this. As if you’d be starstruck, right?”

He pursed his lips and just nodded. He’ll just have to tell her later.

_You_ , he would say, whispering it against her cheek as they danced slowly on the balcony, no music, just them. _I’m starstruck by you, Lili._


	4. iv. zero feet apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On distance and longing.

1304.5 miles. **  
**

You would’ve made fun of me. For idly Googling the distance between New Orleans and New York. For trying to figure out the exact measure of the distance between us.

“At least round it off to the nearest hundred, Lili,” you would have said. “1304.5 miles! What in the actual specific fuck is that?”

I laughed at your voice in my head, laughed at the fact that I could hear it so clearly and distinctly in that trademark expressive lilt of yours. I could even imagine your fingers twirling on your stubborn forelock (the one I loved to kiss away from your forehead in the mornings), your face crinkled into the goofy smile I had learned better than my own.

Then I sighed for the thousandth time at the fact that you weren’t around for me to hear and see all these things.

Will we ever get used to it, Cole? Will it ever feel less intense? Will it become more familiar - the absence of your warmth from my bed, the silence where your commentary and your conversation and your video games usually take up space?

My phone buzzed, an Instagram alert. From you. That was surprising.

You’d tagged me in a photo with Haley. Opening it, I cringed. I looked balmy and sweaty and tipsy, despite the fact that I’d consciously chosen to remain sober for the night, not wanting to be half-alert once we got back to our room. I replied back immediately:  _GROSS. WHY._

You were deliberately obtuse in your response.  _Whoa whoa Haley is gross? I’m telling Brett._

I rolled my eyes.  _No. Me! I’m the gross one!_

 _You’re delusional._  Three grey dots, then another message.  _How?!_

I took a screenshot of your story and put it up on mine, my caption making my reply obvious. That got your attention quick. My phone buzzed with another alert.  _Cole Sprouse would like FaceTime…_

I slid my lock open. I thought I was ready, but I wasn’t. Then again, am I ever really prepared for your onslaught of handsome? You were on set, wearing your normal wife beater, and while you looked pale and drawn and tired, I still longed to reach out and touch you. The downturn of your lips. The lashes that framed your blue-green eyes.

But, a moment: I had to pretend to be annoyed. “You  _had_  to pick that picture, Cole.”

“I’m honestly confused about what the big deal is,” you replied, shrugging.

“I look like a hobo!”

“Bride of hobo,” you corrected. I laughed at the meta  _Riverdale_  reference. “Come on. Look at me, Lils. Can you guess how long I’ve been wearing this tank top for? That’s pure hobo shit.”

I groaned. “Oh, god. Please tell me someone is reminding you to do your laundry while I’m not around. Should I text Haley? I’m texting Haley.”

“Look, I’m just saying, if I could shower with this on, I could. It’s so comfortable.” I shook my head at your defiance. “And besides, it still smells like you. After you wore it to bed and all. I don’t wanna take it off.”

My gaze softened. How do you do this to me? I was literally just telling you off about laundry and all it took was two sentences and I was melting into a puddle.

I threw off the daydream. “Anyway. The photo, Cole.”

“Yep.”

“Couldn’t you have picked a prettier one?” I moaned.

You furrowed your brow. “What, like… from Cuixmala or something?”

“No, from that night! On Bourbon Street!”

“Right, right.” You scratched the back of your neck. “Well. I’ll be honest. I liked that photo.”

 _Oh._  “Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s cute.”

“I look drunk.”

“You look natural.”

“I naturally look like a drunk?!” I half-yelled.

“What? No!” You laughed, a little frustrated at me. “Look, Lils, if you’re looking for some awesomely made-up, posed photo of you to try and gauge how and why I find you beautiful, well… you’ll be looking for a while. Because as much as I love seeing you all done up, and as much of a joke that story was supposed to be, that is exactly how I like seeing you. Simple and unadorned. You’re perfect that way.”

I could scarcely breathe, for fear of bursting the hazy bubble I was in. In that moment, I felt every single one of those 1304.5 miles between us. They ached.  _I_ ached.

“I miss you,” I said simply in reply, cowed to silence.

“Hey. I miss you, too. You could just say that, you know. You don’t need to pretend to be mad at me.”

How could you see through me so easily? “I wasn’t pretending,” I lied.

“Psh. Like you could even get mad at this.” You gave me a simmering look, worthy of a model. I swooned, but shook it off.

“Um, I am totally mad. I’m all seething and shit.”

“You keep telling yourself that, babe.” You grinned. “I gotta get back. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

We hung up, and I stared at my lock screen - a picture of us from the Met Ball, a slightly varied version of the one Kendall took on her disposable camera. I’d insisted she took one on my phone, too. She cooed at us as she snapped away. “You two literally have no space between the two of you. That’s too fucking cute.”

You’re 1304.5 miles away. But your words reverberated on my skin.  _You’re perfect that way,_ you had said. 

Suddenly you felt close.

Maybe we’re the ones who are zero feet apart.


	5. v. a billion tomorrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On holding babies. (Cole's POV, in second person)

You’d always felt weird about kids. Well, maybe not  _weird_ \- that was the wrong word entirely. Nostalgic.  _Wistful._  For something you’d never really had an experience of. 

Growing up, there was only really you and your brother - ageing exactly the same, your perspective on childhood constantly mirrored by the other, shaped by the strange experience of being in the public eye. Every now and then, you’d say to one another,  _Wouldn’t it be awesome if we had a younger sibling?_ A sister, you’d both agree. To balance things out. To take the edge off the masculine energy in the house. And while you were hopeful that it would happen one day, it never did. 

Throughout your years on Disney, you met a staggering amount of children. You once turned that into a mathematical problem -  _“Hey Dylan, let’s say we met x amount of kids during our time on Suite Life, and we attended y number of events in one year, how many autographs do you think we signed in our tenure on the show?”_  - which your brother typically bored of quickly, while you tried to work out the correct equation for the problem.

The sum ended up being a colossal amount. Of course. The world was mad for you two. You felt it, too - the thrill and the elation and the exhaustion of it all.

One thing you did enjoy - babies. A lot of mothers brought them with their older brothers and sisters who watched the show, to be hugged and cuddled and held by you. Some were worryingly small, so you quickly learned how to hold them so that their necks would stay secure. A lot of them cried, terrified by the loudness of proceedings around them, so you learned how to cajole and coo at them so they’d settle down. And so it came about that you eventually became used to them, developed a sort of expertise on how to handle them.

In the years since - in the self-consciously adult years of college, the terrifying,  _actual_ adult years following graduation - the concept of children faded from your memory. But every now and then, you’d wonder. Travelling on the J line on your way home from college, you’d see plenty of hipster dads with carriers strapped to their chests, their babies bundled inside. And it made you think - idly, as it made any young man think -  _when’s my turn_? The thought would depart as quickly as it had arrived - out the window and into the speeding tracks as you turned up the Smiths on your iPod.

Fast forward to years later. You’re 25, career restarted - flourishing, even. Babies are the furthest thing from your mind. You’ve been given a new start, and you’re revelling in it, because you’re a young man with ambitions and an agent in your ear and events to attend and photoshoots scheduled with magazines you’d once only dreamt of.

But then there was her.

The plot twist you never expected, the spanner in the works. It was all so straightforward before she came along, so uncomplicated: get in, do your job, look for more opportunities. But she knocked that right out with her bright green eyes and legs for days and a laugh that made your heart sing. Suddenly, you weren’t just thinking in black and white, about the career you wanted to build. You were thinking in colours and prisms and new possibilities. Life leapt off the linear calendar you’d made for yourself, exploding and expanding into adventures and escapades - into her, into the world around you.

And so when two small babies showed up on set, something dormant stirred in you. That same wistfulness you had on the subway, the nostalgia of carrying something so small and vulnerable. It wasn’t a sudden desire to procreate -  _god,_  no - but a wondering at what lay ahead. For you. For both of you.

“Did you wanna carry this little guy?” she’d asked.

You did. As she passed him to you, carefully, gingerly, you were overcome by a searing sense of tenderness. He smelled of warmth and milk and need. He was snug in your arms, bundled against the cold, at first indifferent to you, but calm at least. You cooed and nuzzled his cheek tentatively, unsure whether this kid was old enough to be capable of rejection. Thankfully, he melted further into your arms, and started chewing on your coat, drooling on your neck. You laughed.  _Well, that’s one way of being accepted._

You caught her eye. She was cradling and bouncing the little girl, who had already marked her territory by spewing on her pink bathrobe. You nodded towards the stain, and she looked down and giggled, shaking her head.

In that moment, no words needed to be spoken. Just a quick glance, a small smile that indicated a mutual understanding. It’s nebulous at best, what was said in that look, but in it you see the future widening like a river expanding in its swell, breaking out into open ocean. You feel the tug of generations, and resist the urge to name your future children as you gazed into her laughing eyes. There are seeds of dreams in them - unplanted, but waiting. Calling you to run with her into the wild unknown of a billion tomorrows.

But not yet. For now, you’ll live this dream with her and wait for the season to turn, to tell you that there are new horizons to be conquered.

And tonight, you’ll tell her that you love her, kiss her and feel the stirrings of tomorrow thrum beneath your lips.

Waiting to be released.


	6. vi. words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poetry, The National and the ache of absence. (Cole’s POV, second person)

She hadn't meant for you to see the first one. Scribbled on a loose piece of paper, left behind in her trailer after she'd been hurried out to shoot her scene, you could tell she wasn't happy with it. There were words crossed out, flowers on the corners, almost as if she'd ran out of what to say and settled for drawing instead.

It was unfinished, but you wished that she'd kept at it. 

You knew that she wrote poetry. That she breathed it (Neruda and Gill and Leav lived in her car, dog-eared and highlighted and loved). That, hell, she even looked and moved and tasted like it. But she'd never been game enough to show her poems to you.

You showed her yours, of course, the ones you'd written for her.  _The crow is clicking at us, can you hear it?_ At the time, it felt like the world was folding in on her, treating her unfairly, and in those words, you were holding out your hand to her, telling her that it was okay. That the wind would pass and the crow would cease, and nothing but the soft whisper of your voice in her ear would remain. She made you write it out on paper - on  _good_ paper - in your own handwriting, before framing it and hanging it up in the apartment.

You wished you could see hers, but you never asked, knowing that poetry was the most intimate part of one's self. It was brain and brawn and heart, all at once. 

So that day, as you held that piece of paper in your hands, you marvelled at the blazing energy of her words. They were her - tenderly, irrevocably  _her._ Simple yet intense. Bare and powerful. 

And they were for you.

In moments of melancholy and low self-esteem, you'd hark back to that moment, that stunning realisation: you inspired  _this girl_ to write. Surely, you must be doing something right with your life.

She came back to the trailer, fresh from her scene, and was startled when she saw you holding her draft. She sighed in defeat, realising the folly of leaving her things lying around, before wrinkling her nose in self-deprecation. "It's shit, right?" she said.

"God, no," you said, alarmed as you stood up. "Lili, this is... I mean, Jesus, what are you  _not_ good at? It's perfect."

"Well, I'm obviously not good at cleaning up after myself," she laughed. "I  _was_ going to show you that one. But the finished version."

You kicked the trailer door shut before pulling her into your arms. Stared at her for a moment. She raised an eyebrow at you. "What?"

"You really feel that way about me?"

She smiled cheekily. "Well, if you let me finish the poem, you would've seen that the last line was gonna be, 'Just kidding!'"

"Come on," you implored. "I'm serious."

She brushed a piece of hair away from your face. "Cole, why do you think that was unfinished?"

You shrugged.

She was silent for a moment. "It's impossible for me to pin you down to words," she said. "My poetry can only do so much. When it comes to how I feel about you, I will never, ever get it right. There's too much of it, and not enough words in this world."

...

You remember this conversation as you sit brooding in the car. 

Your friends are in town, enjoying New Orleans for the first time, and while you've been a gracious host, they also knew when to leave you alone, to let the silences expand when your imagination was off somewhere else. The National was on the radio, and you smirked at the cheap coincidence of the song lyrics.

_I’ll try to call you from the party_  
_It’s full of punks and cannonballers_  
_I need my girl_  
_I need my girl_

They're someone else's words, but they bring you to her - to the last time you'd glimpsed her face, the slow falling of her heavy eyelids as you FaceTimed her to sleep. She'd been watching horror movies all alone in her LA apartment, and she was too jumpy to sleep alone; hence the FaceTime. You longed to put your arms around her, to reassure her that  _yes, Lili, the door is locked. And the windows, too. I won't let anything happen to you._

_I can’t get my head around it_  
_I keep feeling smaller and smaller_  
_I need my girl_  
_I need my girl_

The song ended, but your melancholy didn't, and you longed for words to assuage the ache, to soothe the burn of her absence. 

So you swiped your phone open, clicking on the only Tumblr account you followed.

And there they were. Words and words and words.

All hers. All for you.

A few more days, and you'll be home with her. You imagine opening the door into the darkened hallway - it would be midnight once you landed - her sleeping form curled up under a duvet, the TV still blaring. You'd turn it off, and she'd be startled by the abrupt silence, eyes fluttering open, brightening as they saw you.

And without saying anything, you'd carry her into the room, closing the door behind you.

Taking her to the place where words are unnecessary.

 


	7. vii. home becomes him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, home is just a person. (Lili's POV)

Home is a room. The film posters that spoke of early dreams and ambitions, playbills and programmes and ticket stubs from stage productions she’d begged her mom to see. The box under the bed with the scripts she’d kept immaculate from school musicals, when she went from playing Servant 1 to the villain to the main lead. Letters and photos of her best friends on the mirror.

Home is a table. The table around which she would eat with her family, bickering with her sisters, inviting friends over for a meal. The table on which she’d doodle lazily as she dreamt of things that were bigger than calculus and fourth period homework and writing an essay on _Huckleberry Finn._ The first table read of her life - looking up in awe at other working actors, their names printed neatly on cards in front of them, scripts bound in plastic positioned and ready to be read out loud.

Home is a car. The conduit of her dreams, the vessel in which she would take that first brave step into doing it all on her own - no Plan B, no fallback, just _this:_ another girl headed for the bright lights of LA, wanting to make it big. The playlist blaring everything from the Dixie Chicks to Lady Gaga, anything that’s loud and emotive enough to keep the doubts at bay. Anything that could keep the stars in her eyes and her head in the thick of dreams.

Home is a mattress. It’s all she owns for now. The sheets are from IKEA, and she bought them in an attempt to make the small space of her room feel like home. She curls up in it as she waits for the auditions, the callbacks. Sometimes they come, and sometimes they don’t. She drifts into drowsiness, wondering if this was all worth it.

Home is a phone call. Just one. _The_ one. And she screams and she cries and she sends up a prayer of gratitude because she’d been on the verge of giving up, and this came through at just the right time. And in it she feels that a million doors are now open to her and that anything is possible.

Home is a set trailer. It’s small, but she’s never really had a trailer to herself before, with a heater for the cold Vancouver evenings and a TV and snacks that she picked out herself. It makes her feel heady with accomplishment, with having made it.

But sometimes, when _he_ comes around - with his expansive vocabulary and clear blue eyes and a laugh that sings with mirth and a measure of self-deprecation - she’s not sure if she’s heady with that, or with her own desire.

...

Home, again, is a car.

But this time, his.

She memorises the way he drives - one hand on the steering wheel, another lightly stroking his lip in the absence of a cigarette.

In time, that hand would interlock with hers.

In time, her stuff would accumulate in the boot - her jackets and scripts and bags of uneaten chips.

In time, she’d know the backseat just as well as she knew the passenger side - the feel of its leather on her back, and just how far she could stretch her legs before they pressed up awkwardly against the door ("Cole, I need space," she'd say, laughing).

Home is his couch on a Saturday afternoon. A nap that she had to take, knowing he didn’t have to. He would lay there anyway, reading Capote and Kafka and _I, Claudius._ Waiting for her to wake up. Letting her rest her head on his chest, even when she left a damn patch on his favourite shirts.

Home is his camera on her windowsill, the slow buildup of clothes in each other’s apartments so that neither of them needed to pack an overnight bag, two toothbrushes over the sink (his toothpaste preference, because he was more particular).

And slowly, home becomes _him._

She plots Ursa Major on his skin, traces each mole and freckle while he sleeps. She claims his lips as her own, planting the flag of her kisses on the territory of his mouth. She finds herself a nook - the crook beneath his arm, where she fits perfectly. She fits her body inside his as they sleep at night, whines in the middle of the night when she finds that they’ve drifted away from each other. And his arms go around her automatically, sometimes without even opening his eyes. As if they were a compass trained to her north.

When he is away for long stretches of time - as she is sometimes wont to do - she lives her life as normal, going out with friends and organising the clutter in her closet and watching horror movies to pass the time.

But she recognises in herself a homesickness that has nothing to do with location or geography, and everything to do with his absence.

So when he arrives at her door after the longest three weeks of her life, she has to whisper to herself, _get it together, Lili._ She wipes sweaty palms on her shirt and breathes slowly as she hears his bags drop the the floor.

“Cole?” she calls out tentatively into the living room.

He stands there, exhausted and tired but every sinew and muscle obviously hungry for _her._ She runs to him and he sweeps her up into a passionate roar of an embrace, an intense and frenzied chaos of a kiss, and she is lost and incoherent and desperate for more, even when he’s right there for the taking.

He rests his head on her shoulder, his arms clinging to her waist. “I’m home, Lili.”

“I know,” she whispers back. She tangles her fingers through his hair and takes in his scent and feels her pulse slow down as her body recognises safety.

Before she kisses him again, she says, “So am I.”


	8. viii. on wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four moments in a relationship. A loose, experimental narrative, inspired by wolves.

**i. lone wolf**

It was odd at first - returning into the fray of acting without his brother. But Cole had to remind himself that they were now fighting in two different theatres of the same battle; they were on the same side, just in separate corners of the world.

So it was that he found himself stalking the corridors of the  _ Riverdale  _ audition rooms like a lone wolf, all hunger and heart and a deep need to prove his worth. He wanted to blend into the walls, to hide himself in plain sight, but already, heads were swivelling around to stare at him - people checking to see if this really was the legendary Cole Sprouse who had once been one-half of the most paid child duo on television. It made him anxious, clammy and claustrophobic.

Then, in the midst of all the nerve-shredding scrutiny, a clear ray of light.

Lili. 

He sat across from her because everyone else was looking at him and trying to pretend that they weren’t. She, however,  _ truly _ wasn’t, being too wrapped up in reading her script to pay him much attention. He liked that. He liked his anonymity to her. He liked her focus and her drive and the tunnel vision that excluded him.

And her startling green eyes. He liked that, too. 

He missed making an introduction, but when he got the part of Jughead Jones after an audition that convinced even  _ him  _ that he’d landed the role (he was, after all, his own worst critic), he knew deep down that they’d run into each other again. The afternoon felt too much like the machinations of fate to ignore.

And so with one hunger sated, another one began to grow deep in the pit of his stomach.

For her. To touch her. To be part of her world.

.

.

.

**ii. _in bocca al lupo_**

After they shot their first scene alone together, he sat in the trailer afterwards, gathering his thoughts. 

Did he expect that? To feel as he felt? To be electrified to the touch, unable to look away from her gaze? To sense that there were rivulets of brilliance streaming in the spaces between their fingers? Was that even  _ normal _ between actors? But he already knew the answer to that, having acted since he was a small child. 

_ No, Cole, it’s not normal. _

He chuckled into the small, empty space of the trailer. Just hours before, he and Lili had sat in there, readying themselves for the scene. They were both introverts and prepared for scenes similarly - by either reading over a script over and over again, or napping. Neither of them were built to goof around like KJ, who ramped up his energy through humour, or ease effortlessly into character, like Cami, who could switch it on and off like a tap like an absolute pro. Instead, they liked keeping to themselves, talking quietly about everything and nothing at all.

“So, you ready for this?” he asked, nervously drumming his fingers against his knees.

“Sure am,” she said, with a smile so bright it seemed to illuminate the small space. “As they say, break a leg.”

“Ugh. Don’t you hate that, though - ‘break a leg’?” He turned towards her. “It’s so visceral. Let’s say something else. It’ll be like our thing.”

_ Our thing.  _ He mentally scolded himself for that.  _ Stop flirting, idiot. _

_ But I can’t help it,  _ insisted another part of his brain.  _ How the hell am I supposed to? _

“Okay, then,” she said. “What do we say?”

He racked his brain desperately, before suddenly remembering a tour that he and his family had taken at the Teatro alla Scala - an opera house in Milan. He thanked the stars for his ridiculous memory.

_ “In bocca al lupo,”  _ he said, smiling at her.

“Huh, cool. What does that mean?” 

“‘Into the mouth of the wolf.’ That’s what opera singers used to say to each other, for good luck.”

“ _ In bocca al lupo.”  _ She didn’t say it out loud, instead mouthing it quietly as she made the words familiar on her lips. Finally, she beamed. “‘Into the mouth of the wolf.’ I like it. Nice one, Cole.”

He tried to ignore how gratified he’d felt at establishing this secret language between them, but failed miserably. When she whispered it into his ear right before the cameras started rolling, it took all of his focus to keep his lines straight. But somehow, he got there, because she was great, and so was he, and together they were dynamite.

It became their little tradition, and remained the same for every scene. “ _ In bocca al lupo _ ,” they’d say to each other. It threw him straight into the scene, kept him sharp and aware. 

Funnily enough, it also tumbled him right into the oblivion of infatuation.

.

.

.

**iii. howl**

He wants to yell it over rooftops and paint it onto walls and write entire essays about it.

He wants it carved into the trunk of a tree.

He wants to scream it at the moon.

He wants to scrawl it in wet cement so that it remained there forever, hovering beneath the shoes of strangers, its grooves etched into permanence. 

He wants it burned on his skin and spelled out into constellations.

But he can’t do any of that for now, so he settles for a hoarse whisper, with his eyes closed, even with every pore in his body wanting to scream it out so that she, and everyone else within a 5-kilometre radius, could hear it:

_ “I love you, Lili Reinhart. I love you with every fucking thing I’ve got.” _

_. _

_. _

_. _

**iv. bonds**

It was never a question of  _ if,  _ but  _ when.  _ And also,  _ which camera should I pack? _

He’d been with her when the phone rang, watching her as she glanced suspiciously at the unfamiliar number before taking the call with reluctance. He’d interlaced his fingers through hers (which, he quickly realised, were trembling from shock) when tears started welling up in her eyes, and embraced her tightly when she told him, through laughing and sobbing, that she got the part.

So of course he was going with her. Of course he was going to get on that plane and ride along on that adventure. He wanted everything with her - the dizzy pace of work, escapades across the world, but also triumph and ambition and new horizons.

_ Let me be the one,  _ he wanted to say.  _ When all your dreams come true, let me be the one to be there beside you. _

He watched her as she made her way into the heart of the sanctuary, sitting down on the grass as the wolfdogs eyed her warily. They’d both been briefed on the importance of being gentle in their approach. “These dogs are rescues, so they’re a lot more sensitive than your normal regular dogs,” their tour guide said. “Let them approach you first, but don’t be afraid. Fear makes them tense - it puts them on the alert.”

Cole smiled at that. Fear was absent here. Didn’t they know that his girl was made of courage?

Lili sat chatting quietly with Gilles, her director, while Cole took photos of her and the surrounding landscape. He never got tired of looking at her through his lens - every single time still took him by surprise. Whether it was a certain angle or a different look, she never failed to find yet another way to steal his breath.

Suddenly, he heard her gasp. A tiny little wolf pup had approached her, clearly braver and more curious than its elders. Lili held her hand out tentatively, and the cub trudged forward, probably sensing in her an ally. When it hopped straight into her arms, everyone - the tour guide, Gilles, Lili, and yes, even Cole himself - laughed in delight. Soon enough, the cub’s family started wandering over, alerted that these strangers were safe. 

“What’s this little guy’s name?” Lili asked as the cub jumped playfully onto her lap.

“Well, he’s technically been ID’d as WD-6720, but we call him Lupo,” the guide said. “It’s Italian for --”

“Wolf. Yes.” Lili’s eyes twinkled at Cole, the memory of their shared line coming back to her.  _ In bocca al lupo,  _ into the mouth of the wolf. “He’s beautiful. Was he born in the sanctuary?”

“He was. His parents were rescues - that’s his mom right there, approaching Gilles. They were part of a bigger group that was kind of the ruling pack of the plains, before hunting dwindled their numbers. Lupo’s mom and dad were the alphas of that pack.”

“Wow,” Lili said, ruffling Lupo’s ears. “What about his mom? What’s her name?”

“Drea, we call her.” The she-wolf, hearing her name, inclined her ears toward them. “In Greek it means ‘courageous’. She was a real warrior, pregnant with her pups when we brought her in.”

“What a fighter,” Lili said, reaching for Drea as she stepped tentatively into her space.

“And that guy sitting in the bushes, watching you all?” The group turned towards the direction indicated by the guide. “That’s her mate - Ryker. A real scrapper. He tends to follow her around. One of our guys think he’s being protective because of the trauma they went through as a family, but partially, I think he just really, really likes her.”

The group chuckled. Cole kept snapping away.

The guide continued. “I mean wolf-dogs generally are quite wary and protective of each other because of their pack mentality and everything, but those two are… pretty special. Their bond is just something else.”

Cole lowered his camera. Lili looked up. They smiled at each other - a secret smile that acknowledged how reminiscent that entire narrative was of their own. 

_ Protection. Courage. Bonds. _

“Cole, did you want to play with the wolves?” the guide called out.

“Oh,” he said. “Can I?”

“Sure, come over here and sit close to Lili.”

Cole tucked his camera into his backpack before joining Lili on the grass. As soon as he sat down, Ryker trotted out from the shadows, nuzzling his hair. The guide was delighted, swearing up and down that he’d never done that to anyone before. Lili laughed and whipped out her phone to film. “He likes you,” she giggled.

_ He should,  _ Cole thought as he looked back at her - this girl he’d sworn to love and protect and champion for as long as he could.

_ He’s me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The phrase "in bocca al lupo" is a real thing, and a much more elegant alternative (in my opinion) to "break a leg". I also wrote a quick Bughead drabble based on this phrase!
> 
> 2\. The last line from "howl" was taken straight from one of my own fics - "Apparitions" - which details how I think these two crazy kids said 'I love you' to each other.
> 
> 3\. "Let me be the one, he wanted to say. When all your dreams come true, let me be the one to be there beside you." Sharp-eyed fans of "One Tree Hill" would recognise the inspiration behind this line - that epic moment between Lucas and Peyton in 4x09. SWOON.


	9. ix. dior homme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He overwhelms her senses, and she's always trying to resist. 
> 
> Or, a brief history of Cole and Lili at Comic Con.
> 
> (Lili's POV)

You still remember the first time you became conscious of his close proximity to you. It was back in Season 1 shooting, and it was nothing huge - just a brief brushing of elbows as the two of you stood in line for food at craft services. He looked down at you and stretched lazily like a cat - his shirt lifting slightly, exposing his skin and the dark line on his stomach. And then he smiled like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just shifted every molecule in your world. 

You, on the other hand, felt like you’d been zapped.

From then on, whenever he was anywhere within a 5-metre radius, even if you couldn’t see him, you just  _ knew.  _ Something about the way your skin suddenly attuned itself to the air, as if it craved to have the memory of that brief caress all over again. It was gentle, and pure. Like a drop of rain.

(It only stood to reason that when he first kissed you, it felt like a fucking _ deluge _ .)

You’d always thought to yourself that if people knew what  _ that  _ was like, maybe they’d understand - why you couldn’t bear to be around him, and not crave his touch. 

.

.

.

Comic Con was always overwhelming.

The sheer size and spectacle of it - the noise, the traffic, the energy and excitement - all of it was  _ a lot  _ to take in. Particularly when you were suddenly thrust right into the spotlight, along with everyone else riding the wave that was  _ Riverdale _ .

But somehow, in the midst of the chaos, his touch always managed to find you, and it was your ballast and your clarity.

At your first Comic Con, in 2016, you’d just finished off a roundtable interview, mildly anxious about how it went, how you came across to reporters. That’s when you turned around and saw him, his arms outstretched, wanting to pull you in for the most random, unexpected embrace.

You had no idea how he even got there. One moment you’d spied him out of the corner of your eye, walking around with KJ, and in the next he was standing right in front of you, his smile mischievous, arms open, but his eyes heavy with the gravity of something deeper, something unsaid. You were friends then, but already there was a deeper undercurrent of attraction. 

Then, 2017. You never meant to out yourselves. But in the moment his hand brushed against yours as it rested on the back of the interview couch, you couldn’t help it: you laughed. Because of all people, it had to be  _ him.  _ It had to be the person who rendered you weak at the knees, whose kisses and caresses raised goosebumps on your flesh and made your soul sing.  

In the early flush of your new love, the two of you could barely keep your hands off of each other, but big industry conventions like this had to be a fortress of resistance - both of you were under a microscope of scrutiny, and multiple phones were ready to film you from every angle, at every moment. And for the most part, you managed to stay under the radar. You managed to steer clear of each other, and maintain your distance.

But that moment couldn’t be helped: it brought forth a bubble of joy in you. It spilled out in laughter, and as others cast over a questioning glance, you knew that you’d been careless. But you couldn’t help it. You were deep in the first throes of this intense love.

“We just have to be more aware,” you both said to each other. “We have to be more careful.”

And this was the constant chorus you had to repeat to yourself when you were in public and spied the liquid softness of his eyes and the open gap in his shirt and the impish grin that split his full, kissable lips:

_ Resist. Resist. Resist. _

.

.

.

And then, to 2018.

You were returning to Comic Con as conquering victors, marching in to loud publicity and fan-driven pandemonium. The two of you had also become more comfortable with your place in the public eye, walking the Met Gala steps, official and acknowledged by the world. 

But that only caused you to hold more fiercely to the secrecy that remained in your relationship - those little moments that could never be anyone else’s but yours, the things that happened behind closed doors that no-one else knew about. 

So whenever you could, you kept your distance. When you absolutely had to sit next to each other during interviews, you maintained a certain gap - distant enough that there was no danger in touching, but close enough to know what cologne he had chosen to put on that morning (he preferred Bottega Venetta, but every now and then, he would put on your favourite - Dior Homme - just to mess with you).

But that all changed on your last day, the day of the show’s panel in Hall H. As you smoothed down your baby blue skirt a little self-consciously, hyper-aware of your appearance and the fact that your outfit was was a little more revealing than what you usually wore, you felt him come up behind you, right before his arm curled around your waist and pulled you in. 

“This looks good,” he murmured into your ear as his fingers grazed your bare stomach. 

“You like it?” you replied, melting back into his embrace to ease your uncertainty. “It’s kinda different to what I usually wear.”

He didn’t answer at first, only chuckled. He leaned in, his finger slipping under one thin blue strap, lightly skimming your skin. Despite the warmth of the San Diego air, you shivered at the brief contact. 

He leaned down to whisper in your ear. “I wasn’t talking about the dress, Lili.”

.

.

.

All bets were off. 

Your mind was in a daze, heady with the desire in his eyes and the sound of his voice and the smell of him that lingered on your clothes. As you sat next to each other in the Hall H panel, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him, because he really was something to behold when he was in his element - charming, witty, sharp and and articulate. You marvelled at his confidence, the ease with which he won people over. 

But he also looked  _ good.  _

His shirt stretched over his back as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, its shadows and folds showing you the places where the muscles on his lean torso dipped and rose - a landscape you had marked as your territory. His hair was in its usual state of having been styled by some poor unfortunate groomer who knew that their work would go to shit by the afternoon, because he was always running his fingers through it. But you loved it like that - messy and a little wild, just like he was. As his forelock hung over his eyes, it was easy to resist the urge to brush it out of the way, because you actually preferred him looking that way - your beautiful, roguish Cole. 

Kelly’s voice brought you back into the present. “Which one of you... is the hottest dad?”

He didn’t waste a second. “Lili.”

Your head whipped around to look at him, the smile on your face impossible to repress. You were sure the mics picked that up. “What?” you whispered.

He let the words sink in as Camila laughed at both of you - his obvious preening pride and your flustered giddiness. 

“I’m not the hottest daddy,” you mumbled off the mic, careful to keep that off the sound system.

He ignored you, jerking his thumb in your direction, as if he wanted to make sure that people  _ knew  _ how beautiful he found you, how much he desired you. You couldn’t see his full face, but the smile lines on his cheek showed that he was wearing his signature smirk. 

How the hell were you supposed to respond to that? You could barely sit still, could barely trust yourself not to throw your whole body at him and kiss him senseless. In the back of your mind, the usual refrain of common sense echoed:

_ Resist. Resist. Resist. _

And then that was when you caught it - a familiar fragrance.

Dior Homme.

_ Fuck.  _

In the absence of his touch, there it was: the sweet assault of your favourite scent, the one he knew always drove you wild and into his arms. Clever, clever man. He knew exactly what he was doing.

_ Well,  _ you thought,  _ two can play at this game. _

You leaned in, close enough so he could feel the warmth emanating off your skin, your voice hot and low as it whispered into his ear:

“Not as long as you’re around, babe.”

.

.

.

Later that night, you would learn him again.

By sight.

By smell.

By sound.

By taste.

By touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is obviously a work of speculative fan fiction. I have no idea what Cole's actual fragrance is, but having had a friend attest to him smelling a little bit like pine, I liked the idea of him wearing a leathery, woodsy scent like Bottega Venetta Pour Homme. But I also liked the idea that he had a certain cologne that Lili preferred, and he'd wear that just to mess with her. Please don't take these guesses as truth!


	10. x. orbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On four birthdays. (Lili's POV)

**twenty-four.**

“Happy birthday,” I said, shyly, away from the crowd that was gathering around the table on set. We were in the middle of shooting, and one of the crew had organised for a cake to be brought in. With everyone’s eyes fixed away from us, I stood up on my toes and looped my arms around your neck, embracing you.

I felt your smile against my skin and even thought that I could feel the small dimple that hovered above your lip as you swooped in to kiss my cheek in return. “Thank you,” you said simply.

I held myself steady, but I could have sworn that stars were born in the imprint of that small, chaste kiss.

Was it still a secret that we kept from ourselves, that there lingered in those moments a taste of the inevitable? That we were one conversation, one moment away from crashing into everything we’d been avoiding because it was too hard, too complicated,  _ too much _ to actually be together?

We parted, and it was in the hesitation of letting go that I knew the answer was  _ no.  _ That we both knew, even without speaking, the reality that kept us both up at night and on the phone to each other:

We wanted more.

.

.

.

**twenty-five.**

“Oh,” I said, in between breaths, spying the clock over your shoulder. Two minutes past midnight. 

“What?”

“It’s your birthday.” I brushed the hair out of your face and smiled at you as you looked down at me. “Happy birthday, baby.”

.

.

.

**twenty-six.**

Our story is told in the pages of my passport. In the frequent back and forth between Vancouver and LA and New York - numerous repeated stamps that signified this path that brought us together and intertwined our lives into a tapestry of constant adventure.

But there, too, are the one-off stamps that tell a bigger story.

The one from Charles de Gaulle airport. Paris. The tightened hold on my hand and the murmurs of reassurance as we made our way through ever-expanding crowds.

The return stamp into Canada after Hawaii. The necklaces that hung on you, memories of the purest sunsets I’d ever seen in my life.

And my favourite: the two from Mexico. One identical to everyone else, the other identical only to yours. Cuixmala.

Seeing them - it’s like coming full circle. What had started out as two separate trajectories have now diverged into one. 

And so, on the morning of your twenty-sixth birthday, I felt extra sentimental - knowing that this was the third that I’d spent with you. That in the space between 24 and 26 we’d created orbits that defied time.

I woke you up with a kiss.

“Hey,” I whispered. “Happy birthday, my love.”

  
.

.

.

**twenty-seven.**

In an effort to be organised, I bought myself a diary planner for 2019. They were starting to sell them at the mall and I purchased one to try and create some sense of order in my life.

I worked through the pages methodically, month by month, pencilling in the things that I knew were going to happen. Planned trips home. Events and media commitments. 

Then, birthdays.

One might call it an act of faith, circling the day of your birthday in a year’s time. But the truth of the matter is that you and I are constantly writing each other into the future. 

So it’s not an act of faith. It’s not a blind leap into the void. It’s a promise, written in pencil for now, but inscribed in my heart.

To keep writing you into mine.   
  



	11. xi. midnights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He numbers their midnights together, and hopes for more.
> 
> Inspired by San Francisco, birthdays, and muses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I am neither Cole nor Lili, and this is a work of fiction. While it is based on a number of real-life events, it is purely speculative, and was not intended to upset or offend.

**#1.**

The first midnight was an accident.

A dinner with the cast - their first as a complete unit - marked the end of their first week of filming. Her seat was across from his, for no other reason than the fact that she was late and it was the only one left on the table. He thanked his lucky stars for that, because he had plans - small ones that involved making her smile. As she sat down, he cleared his throat, leaned forward and stage-whispered, “Take seven.”

Lili burst out laughing, shook her head warningly at him before composing herself. Their cryptic little interaction caught Casey’s attention. He tilted his head, giving Cole a pointed, questioning look from across the table.

“Private joke,” Cole explained. “Yesterday’s shoot. You kind of had to be there.”

“Ah.” Casey nodded, smirked. Drank his water knowingly.

Cole shrugged it off.

While Roberto and the older cast members went home immediately after dinner, Camila turned to the rest of the cast, who were still brimming with energy. “Anyone know somewhere good we can dance?”

Ross apparently knew a place. As the more boisterous of the crew swaggered through the streets of Vancouver, Cole hung back with Lili. They were quiet at first – that sort of tentative and questioning silence that occupied the space between two people who suspected that they shared an unspoken, secret knowledge.

“So,” she began.

Cole kicked at a piece of loose gravel. “So.”

“How was the rest of today?”

“Alright. Boring.” He smiled as he turned to her. “Where were you?”

(The subtext was there, and it was deliberate:  _ it was boring without you. _ )

“I went home early,” she said. “I didn’t have a scene to film.”

“What’d you do then?”

Lili looked at him coyly. “Come on. Who are you talking to here?” At the same time they both said, “Slept.”

She and Cole laughed at that. They walked on, talking about their day, slowly losing sight of everyone. It wasn’t until they heard their names being shouted by their other castmates – who were all gesturing at them frantically outside a club – that they remembered that they were supposed to be catching up to everyone else.

Inside, the club was dark and neon and blaringly loud. Usually, Cole hated that. He hated not being able to hear himself think.

Tonight, though - tonight, he fucking  _ loved _ it. Because cornering Lili in a conversation meant that they both had to lean in closely to hear each other talk. And while it was true that the bass line was pounding bodies everywhere into submission, he knew that it was his own pulse that jumped at his neck whenever she tilted her head up to mouth something into his ear, achingly close.

At one point, though, the DJ put on a Drake song, and the crowd near-exploded. As physically close as they now were, they still lost their conversation to the cacophony.

“This is crazy,” she shouted into his ear. “I literally missed your whole palaeontology story.”

“Don’t worry, it’s old,” he yelled back, grinning. She rolled her eyes at the pun. He threw back his whiskey. He really had to stop grinning at her somehow.  _ One more of that drink and maybe you’ll have the courage to kiss her, you coward.  _ Hurriedly, he brushed the thought away.

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna head off,” she said.

He frowned. “What, already? Come on, you haven’t even danced to Drake yet.”

Lili laughed. “Uh, yeah, no-one needs to see that.”

Cole sensed the opportunity. “You know what? I’ll share a cab with you.”

“Oh,” she said. “You didn’t wanna stay?”

_You’re the only one I’d stay for. And you’re going._ He shrugged. “I’ll have an early one.”

They waved goodbye to the others. Casey stuck his head out of the group and nodded enigmatically at Cole, who promptly ignored him.

Outside, a light drizzle was dampening the pavement. They walked a few blocks, the beauty of the glimmering streets beholding them to a magic that neither of them wanted to let go of. Cole took his coat off, holding it gallantly over his and Lili’s heads to keep them from getting too wet.

“Thanks,” she said, nudging his side.

“You’re welcome.”

They fell silent. He felt her shivering, resisted the urge to put an arm around her.

They walked a few more blocks before the silence was punctuated by a sudden chiming sound across the street. Trails of smoke plumed into the air. It was Gastown’s steam clock, playing its longest song of the day as it struck twelve.

“Hey,” Lili said. “It’s midnight.”

“It is.” Cole nudged her strappy silver heel with his foot. “So, uh... what’s this about, then?”

“Huh?”

“Your shoe.”

She looked down. “What about it?”

“Well, you know. It’s midnight. But your glass slipper’s still on.”

A slow, rosy blush crept over Lili’s face as she caught on to the  _ Cinderella  _ reference. “Well, my pumpkin’s not here yet.”

He laughed. “That’s true.”

They both fell quiet, each of them grinning secretly and foolishly in the other direction as they absorbed the subtle flirtation in their exchange. A cab came around the corner, and Cole whistled to hail it down.

“I mean, you know how it is,” Lili piped up suddenly. “The shoe doesn’t come off ‘til I run.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said, opening the car door. “So where are you running now?

“Nowhere,” she replied, quirking a small, dimpled smile at him. “Besides. The dance isn’t over yet.”

.

.

.

**#11, 12, 13, 14.**

The following sequence of midnights were a little more deliberate. It was the first week since they’d finally confessed the way they felt about each other, and in that time, they logged an extraordinary amount of hours on the phone. 

Cole knew that he could have just gone over to where she lived and talked to her there. LA was small, after all, and he could have just driven down to see her. But there was something about the old-fashionedness of it - of picking up the phone, of the small thrill of hearing her voice, and nothing else - that he liked, and savoured.

So on the nights when he knew they’d talk, he would drive and park his Jeep up on Cathy’s Corner on Mount Hollywood Drive - the hill where the famous dance sequence from  _ La La Land  _ was filmed. It felt symbolic, to be on this hill of dreams, speaking to his dream girl. 

And on those nights, they learned each other in theory. 

Cole learned, for example, that Lili took dance classes as a kid, but hated dancing. 

He learned the names of the people in her family, their history and their stories.

He debated with her on the merits and flaws of a vanilla cupcake (she loved them; he pointed out that “vanilla” was shorthand for “absence of interesting flavour”). 

He mentally took note of her favourite artists and albums, and saved them on his Spotify, so that on the weekends he was away, he could listen to them on repeat.

She, in turn, learned about every country he’d ever travelled to. She made him recount them, one by one, marvelling at what he marvelled, wishing wistfully that she could go there one day.

She heard, in painstaking detail, how much he hated the principle and practice of carbon dating in archaeology.

She learned the stories of some of his scars - some that were physical, some that were not so.

On those nights, they were never aware of midnight’s slow descent, but instead looked at the time at some ungodly hour in the morning and exclaimed at how much time had passed. At one point, they only hung up because Cole could see the sun’s first rays peeking over the valley.

“Fuck,” he’d say sleepily. “It’s late, Lil.”

“You mean it’s early,” she’d reply, yawning.

He’d laugh - as much laughter as he could muster, having gone without hours of sleep. “So I’ll... I’ll call you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah,” she would reply, and it was simple, it was just one word really, but still, his heart surged at the unspoken promise of  _ more _ . More of her, and more of this. 

“Tomorrow.”

.

.

.

**#19.**

“...anyway. It’s late. I better get going. You okay to walk me back to my car?”

“Wait, where is it?”

“A couple of blocks away.”

“Oh.” He was caught off guard. He thought… 

“What?” she asked. 

“You didn’t want to just…”

Cole’s sentence trailed off. They stared at each other. It felt like a showdown, but he wasn’t having that; he broke easily, unable to resist, stepping closer and slipping his hand around her waist to pull her close. He pressed his forehead against hers, nuzzling her nose.

“It’s  _ late _ , Lili.”

“Yeah…”

“And no-one else is at home.”

“Oka- _ aaay _ .”

He took a step back to look at her. Eyes pleading. 

She laughed at his needy expression. “What?”

“Do I really need to spell it out?” he whined. “Do you really  _ have _ to go home at this time?”

Lili sighed and shook her head, exasperated, before cupping his face in her hands. “Cole, you know I’ve just been waiting for you to  _ ask _ ,” she said softly. “So… ask.”

_ Of course _ . It was still so early in their relationship, and there was still so much that was uncertain, and she needed things to be concrete, to be spoken and explicit. “Sorry. You’re right. I should have asked. I’m an idiot,” he said.

“No, you’re not. And if you are, you’re a very handsome one.”

“Well, an idiot nonetheless.” Cole took her hand and raised it to his lips, murmuring the next sentence into her skin. “Lili Pauline Reinhart, will you stay over at my place tonight?”

“Cole Mitchell Sprouse, I will gladly take you up on that offer.”

“Good.” He kissed her, sweetly and slowly, not wanting to give too much away, wanting to preserve some of his affection for the night ahead. “Do you need me to drive you back to yours to pick up clothes?”

“No need,” she said. “Actually, you’re gonna need to walk me back to my car anyway. I had some clothes stowed away in case something like this happened.” 

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Really, now? Sneaky.”

“Well, ever since KJ mentioned that you’d been cleaning the place--”

“Ha! That snitch!”

“Well, it was cute. It just sounded like you were one of those male birds of paradise we saw on that documentary the other day. Cleaning your nest to attract a mate.”

He cackled with laughter at the image. As they walked in the direction of her car, he hooked his arm around her neck, pulling her close to kiss her cheek.

_ God,  _ he thought.  _ I am falling so fucking hard.  _

.

.

.

**#56, 61, 70, 71, 72, 101...**

How do you mark the midnights that you sleep through, ensconced in each other’s arms?

_ If we’re asleep,  _ Cole thought in the final seconds before slumber,  _ does our time together count? _

He traced his finger on the firm line of her bare arm, which was slung lazily over his stomach. 

_ I don’t want to sleep through this,  _ he despaired.

_ I don’t want to sleep through this, and miss hours and hours of  _ her. 

.

.

.

**#206.**

He could have blamed it on insomnia, those nights the stayed up well past midnight. 

But the truth was that Cole had never slept better. The bed was warmer, softer, more comfortable - not to mention the sheets smelled sweeter than his ever did (he had no idea what magical detergent Lili used to launder theirs, but he always fell asleep to the scent of lavender). 

And so staying up was, really, a matter of choice. Lili always fell asleep first - such was her talent for tumbling headlong into slumber. Cole usually had his arm under her neck, his hand clutching onto whatever book he was reading at the time, before he slipped it out gently from under her to turn off the lamp. 

Tonight, though, he was the one who’d fallen asleep first. He was exhausted from a full day of exploring San Francisco and the various nooks and crannies of their supposedly haunted hotel. Thanks to his dubious history in urban exploration, he’d manage to find a secret stairway to the rooftop. Lili - a stickler for rules - panicked when she saw him casually discard the ‘NO ENTRY’ sign, but he pulled her in by the hand, smiling and insisting.

“Come on,” he said, cocky and sure. “Don’t you trust me?”

"Um, no."

“What! That’s offensive!”

She laughed. “Okay, okay. You go first. I’ll be right behind you.”

The sunset was stunning, glorious. But not more so than her, who stood silhouetted against the light, her hair catching in the wind, her green eyes bright and illuminated by the spectacle in the sky. He was up to - what was it now? - maybe his third or fourth memory card since they’d gotten together...? He’d never been more inspired, more invigorated, more energised by his craft than when he was with her. It was as though in the outpour of love between them, other things came out in the thundering overflow: his art, and her poetry.

Cole blinked in the dim light as he awoke and came to consciousness, realising he hadn’t changed out of his clothes yet. They’d come upstairs after dinner, and he fell asleep watching CNN. It was dark, but his blurry eyes saw movement in the shadows. The sound of the tap running and filling a tub came from the bathroom, steam starting to billow into the room.

Then his eyes adjusted, and he saw her. And went completely still.

She was clutching a hotel towel to herself, half-clothed, rummaging for something in their shared suitcase. The long, graceful line of her bare back was illuminated in the warm glow of the bathroom lights. She turned around and saw him. “Oh good, you’re awake,” she said brightly. “Do you remember if I packed those bath bombs I bought?”

He didn’t say anything. Only reached to the bedside table to pick up his camera.

“What the heck, Cole--”

“Over to the mirror,” he said. Quietly. Firmly.

She sighed. Gave him a look.  _ Really?  _ It said.  _ Now? _

“It’s past midnight, you know,” she said coquettishly as she took her place before the mirror across the room. “Do you ever stop working?”

“Hold still,” he said, completely ignoring her. 

“You need to take breaks.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he replied sardonically, the camera lifted to his eye. “And besides…” He stepped forward and gently thumbed the soft skin of her lower back. Their eyes met in the mirror - hers wide and inquisitive, his own pupils dark and blown out - and and she raised an eyebrow at him.

“Besides…?” she coaxed.

He stepped forward, his body flush against hers, one hand splayed on the mirror as it supported his weight. In quiet pleasure, he watched a spray of rose red blush and bloom from the base of her neck to the tips of her ears as he drew close to her - close enough to kiss, to whisper:

“You’ve given me an impossible job, my love.”

“And what’s that?”

“To do this,” he said, feeling her shiver as he brushed his lips against her cheek. “To document you - your implausible, sublime perfection, my little muse.”

.

.

.

**#207.**

The next night, at twelve past midnight, Lili suddenly declared that she wanted scrambled eggs. 

Cole knew the exact time, because he was setting their alarm for the next day. As he set up the  _ fifth  _ alarm on her iPhone (she was a notorious snooze magician, somehow making the snooze alerts disappear while half-asleep), she blurted it out, like it was a normal craving. 

“I want eggs,” she half-muttered into the darkness. “Like, scrambled. None of this poached egg bullshit. Proper scrambled eggs, with ketchup. On toast.”

Cole chuckled. “Is this real, or are you just announcing this for the sake of your subconscious, so you could dream about it?”

“Mmm. Dunno.” She sighed and turned to him, laying her head on his chest. “It’s probably nothing.” 

“Sure?”

“Yep. Good night, babe.”

“Night.” He kissed her forehead and promptly closed his eyes.

Nothing but silence for minutes. He heard, then felt, her stomach growl. Lili giggled into the dark.

“Okay,” he said, sitting up. “Are you actually hungry?”

“No. I mean, I can’t be, right? We had a huge dinner.”

“Lil, if you’re hungry, you’re hungry. Your stomach doesn’t operate by logic.” He rubbed his eyes. “You wanna go somewhere?”

“Hmm.” She chewed on her lower lip. “Can I see what happens in five minutes?”

Cole eyed her warily. “Alright. But if I hear it again, we’re heading out.”

“Deal.”

He lay back down. Silence - this one lasting longer than their first. Slowly, he felt her limbs loosening, her breath becoming slower, more even. He could tell that she was close to falling asleep, until they both heard a rapid, rhythmic, steady tapping - like someone striking coin to metal. Lili’s eyes flew open.

“What the _hell_ was that?”

“Dunno,” Cole murmured. “Rat, maybe? It’s an old building.”

“Rats don’t do steady EDM beats like that, Cole.”

“Shhh, you’re going to hurt the rat’s feelings.”

Lili bolted right up. “Hey. When you said we were staying at a haunted hotel, you didn’t book us into the creepiest room, right?”

Cole stayed silent.

“ _ Cole. _ ”

“Well... okay, let’s define ‘haunted’--”

“NOPE. Get up,” Lili said, flinging the cover off him. “We’re getting eggs.”

…

They found an old-school diner a few blocks down from their hotel. Cole had laughed all the way down as he recounted the superhuman speed with which Lili found her jacket, and her facial expression as he took his time finding his. At first, she pouted and said it wasn’t funny - that ghosts were no laughing matter,  _ ask Dylan, Cole, he gets it, he got haunted at the Chateau Marmont and was scared shitless for months.  _ But such was Cole’s theatricality and comedic timing that she couldn’t help it - she ended up laughing, too.

“No need for a menu, Annie,” Cole said, reading the waitress’ name off her badge as they were shown to their booth. “My girl knows what she wants. Your finest scrambled eggs on toast, please, and just a coffee for me. Thank you.”

The waitress smiled at the two of them, clearly enamoured by their young love. As she swept the menus off the table, Cole rested his face in his hands and stared at Lili - her face free of makeup, hair tied up, with soft tendrils coming loose. While he liked her in all of her multitudes - whether she was in costume or heading out or dressed up to the nines - this was probably his favourite Lili. Simple, natural, unadorned.

“What?” she said suspiciously.

“What?”

She giggled. “You’re staring.”

“Oh, so I can’t stare at my girlfriend now?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Of course you can.” She shrugged. “It’s just... awkward.” 

“Awkward? Why?”

“Uh, you do know I still get flustered by you, right?”

Cole scoffed. “By  _ me? _ ”

Lili stared at him. “Yes, you.”

“A dork with an archaeology degree and an unhealthy attachment to his Nintendo Switch? You get flustered by  _ that _ ?”

Lili laughed. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Too late.”

She gave him an exasperated look, reaching forward to grab his collar and pull him up off his seat. “Can’t you just take a compliment?”

Cole’s face softened, his eyes clouding over as they flitted between her gaze and her lips. Lili was caught - her grip relaxing on his shirt as he leaned forward, closing the gap between them...

Then he stuck his tongue out and _ licked her. _

Lili spluttered and laughed. “What the _ fuck _ ?!” Cole grinned at her. 

“Got it on camera, too,” he said triumphantly, showing her the blurred photo.

She wiped her mouth. “Ugh. You’re a dick.”

“That I may be, buy  _ you  _ need to know that you never, ever have to be flustered by some guy who just licked you.”

Lili opened and closed her mouth, as if wanting to say something back - something equally clever. The waitress came and placed their food in front of them. Cole never took his eyes off her.

“Alright, Sprouse,” she said. “You win this round.”

“I wasn’t aware we were playing a game.” He smirked at her. “Is this to win your heart, fair maiden?”

"Nah." She gave him a soft smile. “You won that a long time ago, Cole."

.

.

.

**#423.**

But it was in the midnights when Cole was alone that his mind wandered.

This time, he was another hotel in another city without  _ her  _ in it. He’d already flicked through all the channels on the TV, edited his photos, showered, finished his book. She’d fallen asleep hours before - while they were FaceTiming, in fact. He didn’t hang up for a while, instead watching her as he dozed off.

_ Okay, Cole. End the call. That’s creepy. _

He made himself a coffee, walking over to the full-length window that overlooked New Orleans. The lights burned through the nocturnal hours, and in the quiet hum of the evening, he remembered yet another midnight with her - strolling through the streets of Paris when it was at its most quiet, ending it on Montmartre as they watched the sun rise over the City of Lights. 

They’d lived adventure after adventure, but  _ god,  _ he needed so much more with her. 

Quiet midnights where they’d talk deep into the night.

Midnights of passion, when they were too overcome for words.

Midnights on red-eye flights, on their way to somewhere beautiful and new.

_ No,  _ he said to himself, shaking his head.  _ More. Give me more.  _ They were already building their life together, chapter by chapter, but he need to look ahead to the next book. 

And so in the quiet of his hotel room, he imagined midnights before birthdays that started with the number 3.

Midnights grazing the soft down of her stomach, wondering if something small and beautiful and persistent lingered beneath their intertwined fingers. 

Midnights in an empty, echoing house, laughing at the fact that they only had a mattress and not much else, but happy in the knowledge that they were sleeping in something that was  _ theirs.  _

Cole closed the curtains and turned off the light before settling into bed. Darkness enveloped the room. 

In his mind, though, he saw light - the light of new futures, new possibilities, new midnights and dawns.

And the light was her.


	12. xii. the sweetness of silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Thanksgiving, he meditates on the silence of her hometown. (Cole's POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a more quiet, meditative piece than perhaps some readers were expecting out of the joyful Thanksgiving week we've seen. I hope you still enjoy it!
> 
> There are very brief mentions of non-famous people in this piece, and they are not made by name.
> 
> The 'you' is a second-person reference to Cole's perspective, similar to what I used in my favourite thing I've ever written, "a billion tomorrows".

The silence startles you.  _ Airports aren’t meant to be this quiet,  _ you think. Usually there are the muted  _ ooh _ ’s and  _ aah _ ’s that accompany your exit, the autograph-hungry jostlers, the crowing and clicking of the paparazzi.

But here, in this city, where sport rules and celebrity is its poorer cousin, it’s a little… well, different. The only sound you could hear are the hushed murmurs of the Thanksgiving crowd, eager to get home to their families, and the rollers beneath your suitcase.

Well, yours and  _ hers _ .

It was an unusual travelling arrangement; you usually just shared one suitcase between the two of you. But there were gifts to be packed and taken to her family, and more than just a weekend’s worth of clothes to fit in, hence the two bags. This wasn’t just some quick trip to Montreal or Whistler - this was a homecoming.

“It’s cold,” she mutters, a little tired from travelling, before nestling her cheek into the lapel of your jacket.

You scoff, and ruffle her hair playfully. “I thought Vancouver winters had hardened you to the bitter chill, you wuss,” you say.

“I mean, yeah, maybe,” she replies, yawning. “Or maybe it just feels different ‘cause I’m home.”

You nod, understanding, before putting your arms around to warm her, even though you don’t think it’s  _ that _ cold.

After a moment’s pause, you speak up again. “It’s really quiet here.”

“Well, it’s  _ quieter, _ ” she corrects. “LAX is insane - Vancouver, even. Here, it’s a little more low-key.”

That is true. The night seems to still even now as the two of you stand waiting in Arrivals, and you wonder at that, wonder at what this stillness and silence means, what the lack of noise says about _her_. You’d been pondering that lately - what a hometown reveals of its inhabitants, knowing well enough that the nomadic nature of _your_ childhood, the fact that you couldn’t really call any place your ‘hometown’, fuelled a yearning to move and travel. You never really had one home. You had several.

(Except now, perhaps, because you feel as though you  _ do _ have just the one, and you think fondly of a shared, rumpled bed in Vancouver that you’d left unmade in the rush to the airport, strewn with clothes and a stray Chapstick.)

_ She,  _ however, has this – a base. A sense of foundation. There are pavements here that bear witness to her grazed knees, corners around which she first learned how to drive, bus stops where she’d sit quietly to memorise lines for the school play. 

And so you look out into the night, studying it,  _ listening _ to it, wanting to hear more of it so you could hear every single chapter of her, and not just the ones that you’d happened to stumble into.

.

.

.

Her delighted cry interrupts your thoughts, and you look up to see a car pulling into the waiting area. You realise that it’s nice, for once, not having to hail a taxi or wait for an Uber, but to arrive to someone you actually  _ know.  _ And as your girlfriend’s mother steps out of the driver’s seat and pulls you in for a long, extended hug, you feel a rush of something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Perhaps something to do with the feeling of being known. Accepted. Even loved.

You insist dutifully on carrying your bags into the car, saying  _ no way, these are too heavy, let me grab that for you,  _ and Lili sits herself at the front, chattering excitedly, renewed by her proximity to her own lifeblood. That’s okay – you take the seat at the back, staring out the window and watching the city go by, and like some heartsick poet you speak to it in the deep recesses of your mind.

_ What can you tell me of my love? _

_ Who was she before she was mine? _

No answers. Not yet. Just the quiet hum of the car, and the muted murmur of conversation. 

Soon, the metropolitan landscape gives way to the softer lines of suburbia, and you raise your camera to your eye, capturing photos that are more than likely nowhere near your best. But you’re not an artist today - you’re a documentarian, seeking the intangible things that have shaped her. In each frame, you hope, is some new glimpse into her history.  _ Oh, that’s where I had my 14th birthday,  _ she might say. Or,  _ I used to ride my bike down that street. _

You didn’t care how innocuous the memory was - you wanted every mundane, boring, trivial part of her, along with the epic, the significant, the breathtaking. 

The car slows then pulls up to a long driveway, and you forget your reverie for now, fixing your thoughts back to the present. The engine turns off, seatbelts unclick, and they both turn to you, smiling.

“Welcome to our home, Cole.”

.

.

.

You’d never known a home like this one.

It’s not the things that are present that catch your attention. It’s the things that  _ aren’t _ there. The pictures on the wall lack the patina of professional photography which glossed over your own and your brother’s. The books on the shelves are  _ normal _ books, not official biographies with wild, colourful covers or multiple copies of the comic series you wrote and published at the tender age of 15. In other words, there is a distinct absence of the signs of lifelong fame. And while you’re grateful for everything it gave you - the advantage, the artistry, the passion - you sense a curiosity arising in yourself.  _ What was it like _ ? you want to ask her.  _ What was it like to know a life unburnished by the glare of the spotlight? _

“Are you okay?” she asks, her hand low on your back before she sees what you’re looking at. “Ah, this. Of course.”

You’re smiling at a photograph of her with her arms crossed, stubbornly refusing to blow out her birthday candles. Her sisters flank her, one annoyed and the other too little to know better. “Look at you,” you say. “What a brat.”

“I was doing it on principle,” she explains, laughing. “I was thirteen and one of the candles malfunctioned. I refused to blow out only  _ twelve _ candles, given I’d been super excited about my thirteenth birthday for, like, months. My mom eventually yelled at me when the wax started dripping on the cake.”

You laugh at that. You, on the other hand, had spent your thirteenth birthday signing autographs at some event you could barely remember. It was a luxury, of course - all of it was. But you think, too, that to have only been worried by nothing more than a broken birthday candle at the age of thirteen is a kind of luxury in itself.

.

.

.

You wake up thirsty in the middle of the night, as you are wont to do. Slipping out of the covers, trying not to wake her (but sneaking in a covert kiss anyway, because she looks adorable in her pyjamas), you feel your way to the kitchen and open the fridge. There you see the preparations for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving dinner - a large turkey ready for the oven, Tupperware containers full of cranberry sauce, pies sealed with plastic wrap. The trappings of home. 

You pour yourself a water and drink up, hearing nothing but the liquid in your throat and the mechanical ticking of the old grandfather clock down the hall and the occasional shuffle of paws as the two dogs dream their canine dreams. 

There it is again - the quiet. It doesn’t bug you  _ per se,  _ but much like your arrival at the airport, it draws you in, a mystery you want to unlock. 

A light flickers on, and she’s there. “What are you doing up?” she says groggily.

“I was thirsty,” you reply. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“Yeah, I felt cold,” she said, smiling sleepily.

“Well, that won’t do.” And you give her a ridiculous tackle of a bear hug, half-tickling her, nuzzling into her neck, making her laugh out loud.

“Hey, shhhh,” you say, your arms locked around her as she giggles and flails, “you’ll wake everyone.”

“And whose fault would  _ that _ be?”

A skittering on the floor, and the dogs enter the kitchen, walking in on the two of you. “See, you woke the girls up,” she said, ruffling them both behind the ears. “They won’t go back to sleep now, not unless they sleep in bed.”

“Let them,” you say.

She looks up at you with mild surprise. “Wait, really?”

You shrug. “It’s a big bed.”

You’re not one to share the hallowed space of your sleeping quarters with anyone else but her, but in this case, you make an exception. They’re extensions of  _ her,  _ after all. The four of you bunker down under the blankets, and you wonder what else you’d be sharing a bed with in future. Hot water bottles for stomach aches. More dogs, for sure. And maybe, one day, a little girl running away from the monster in her nightmares, wanting to nestle into the reassuring warmth of her parents.

You drift to sleep thinking upon these flights of fancy, until Sunny’s hind legs kick you in the ribs.  You chuckle good-naturedly at that - at the perils of a love so all-encompassing that it extends to these two furry animals - and in that moment of wakefulness you can hear the contentment in the room. It sounds like silence. 

.

.

.

You figure it out the next day.

It happens when the two of you are out walking Delilah, and the silence again is palpable, with nothing more than the satisfying crunch of leaves underfoot interrupting the peaceful quiet. The sky is a cerulean dream, and her hand is in yours - or rather, it  _ laces _ through yours, fingers interlocking in a loose embrace. The two of you pass by others on the street, nodding pleasantly, conversing with people who recognise her from before  _ Riverdale.  _ They’re kind when they acknowledge you, obviously recognising you but pretending otherwise, until she officially introduces you to them.

“This is my boyfriend, Cole…”

You can’t help it - you feel a swell of pride in your chest when you hear those words, because you are hers and she is yours and she wants it made known to the people who have known her the longest. They shake your hand, smiling at you before politely inquiring after your camera, which is slung over your shoulder. And after all small talk is exhausted (or when your charge tugs impatiently at her leash), the two of you move on, still hand-in-hand.

The walk is punctuated by moments of conversation, but for the most part, there is nothing more than a companionable quiet between the two of you. Because at this point in the relationship, you are beginning to  _ hear _ her thoughts rather than needing them articulated and said out loud. When she cocks her head to one side, it means that she disagrees but is too nice to say anything. When she bites her nails, she needs time to think something through. When she casts those perfect green eyes upward, she knows full well that she can ask the world of you, because you are utterly and hopelessly  _ gone _ for her.

You walk over a hill and see a green vista spread out before you, and you loosen Delilah’s leash, much to her delight as she runs bounding into the park. You place an arm around Lili, and she sinks into your side, and in that moment, you imagine it - a day like this, maybe a year or two or even a decade from now, looking out over the same park with the same girl under your arm. You tell her this, tell her exactly what you’re thinking. 

“That’s a good dream, Mr. Sprouse,” she says as she wraps an arm around your waist.

“It is.”

“A quiet dream,” she adds, “but a good one.”

_ And there it is.  _

It startles you then and there, to recognise that for all the wildness of your imaginings - the career you want, the legacy you want to leave, the money you want to make - there is a secret dream that you harbour, and it’s for the tranquil quietness of  _ her.  _ Your fascination with the silence of her hometown suddenly makes sense. It’s a reflection of who she is. And of what she means to you.

Oh, there are times when she is passionately, irrevocably  _ loud -  _ when she is outspoken about a cause, when she refuses to back down from an argument, when her beauty explodes off photographs that can’t contain everything that she is to you. In those times, she is thunder and crashing waves and so blindingly beautiful it takes your breath away.

But in the intimacy of your clasped hands, the secrecy of your bed, the sanctuary of her arms, the low whisperings of comfort in her words, she is also the silence that calls you out of the noise - the soothing balm to the chaos.

You hide your face in her hair, emotional at this sudden revelation. But she’s too clever for that, knows you far too well for that, and she disentangles herself from you with concerned eyes. You’re not  _ crying,  _ but your mouth twitches a certain way when you’re trying to keep it in, and she cups your face in her hands.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

“That’s the thing,” you say, laughing, and your eyes mist over. “Nothing is wrong. For once, everything is... karmically, perfectly  _ right. _ ”

“What do you mean?”

“Being here... it’s… it’s like...” You struggle for the words, so you settle for the most simple one. "It's  _rest._ "

You don’t want to say anymore, because to speak it out loud feels like you’re disrupting the thin, fragile film between present and future, but the thing is that you dream of rest in more ways than one - to rest in the quiet peace of a love well lived, to rest in a home, in a family, in chapters and chapters of a life built together.

_ And when it comes to the end,  _ you think,  _ I want to write my epilogue with her. _

You thank your lucky stars that she understands, without having to say anything, and simply nods her assent. And she stands on her toes to kiss you, and it’s perfect and good and true until the dog runs between your legs, and you both laugh because it’s exactly the perfect ending to that moment. 

_This, too,_ you think,  _a dog, maybe two if we can handle it._

“You ready to head home?” she asks. 

With her? Always.

“Yeah, let’s go home,” you say.

You make it back in no time, and you would walk with her again the next day, and the day after. 

But in bed that night, as she lies snoozing in your arms, you see it - another day, another kind of journey, a hundred miles of quiet stretching out before you, a new life ready to be lived in the sweetness of silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to Cole's birthday is true - his thirteenth birthday was spent at an X Games in LA, signing autographs with Dylan.
> 
> The phrase "a hundred miles of quiet" was inspired by Tove Jansson's 'Moominland Midwinter'. I include it here just because it's beautiful, and you deserve to read it.
> 
> "The very last house stood all by itself under a dark green wall of fir-trees, and here the wild country really began. Snufkin walked faster and faster straight into the forest. Then the door of the last house opened a chink and a very old voice cried: ‘Where are you off to?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Snufkin replied.The door shut again and Snufkin entered his forest, with a hundred miles of silence ahead of him."


	13. xiii. flourish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His girl loves flowers. So he sends them again, and again, and again.
> 
> A quick sketch on happiness.

It’s a brief moment, but when Cole first hears Lili’s glorious, full-bellied laugh - a response to something funny he said - he makes a decision.

He’d do anything to make her happy.

Actually, choice doesn’t really factor into it as much as _addiction_ does. Whatever it was that seized him when she smiled was beyond his control. It was pure impulse. She’d giggle at a joke and already he’s writing ten more in his head. She’d mention her favourite album and he’d find himself wondering, _does she own a record player? Should I buy her the vinyl edition? That’s crazy, right?_

One day, he’s loitering around her apartment when Madelaine comes home with a bunch of flowers for their table. Lili’s face lights up. They don’t own a vase, so she improvises on some old wine bottles and mason jars and divides the bouquet between them. He fills them with water and helps her cut the stems. In his mind, he takes notes.

_Flowers,_ he writes down in the invisible notebook he maintains in his mind. _Flowers make her happy._

It’s the first thing he does to show interest. He brings small bunches to her place, ostensibly for the apartment, making some lame joke about “lilies at Lili’s”, but Madelaine only quirks an eyebrow at him and smiles her secret smile and helps him put it into anything that can contain water and some blooms. At one point, she looks at him pointedly and mouths, _I know what you’re doing._ He doesn’t care. He shrugs and mouths back, _Okay._

Lili is delighted. Nothing else matters.

...

After their first kiss, the avenue expands and Cole finds other things to do for her happiness. Pictures of dogs. Frozen cookie dough. Post-its on her car, sometimes sweet, sometimes a little dirty.

But flowers remain a theme. And one day, when she casually mentions Antelope Valley and its fields of poppies, the gears in his brain click into place. He’s not even thinking about _yes we should go_ or _no we can’t do that._ He’s already thinking, _how much gas do I need? Which lens do I take?_

“Let’s do it,” he says lightly.

She sits up and searches his face to check if it’s a joke. He remains impassive. “Really?” she asks.

“Yeah. Why not?”

She pins him to the couch and kisses him, and all too easily, the words are worth it. A week later, as she sits on his lap and scrolls through his camera roll and oohs and aahs over each shot, even the shitty ones (“you _don’t_ have shitty ones, Cole,” she always says, and he thinks, _that’s true, never with you_ ), he wonders if she thinks this bargain is anywhere near fair.

_I get to see you at your most vulnerable and beautiful,_ he thinks as she zooms in and out of each frame. _I am somehow held responsible for the burst of light that is your smile. I hear your laugh and I know how to turn it into a kiss. All in exchange for the simple task that is your happiness._

...

Valentine’s Day approaches. Cole hates it, normally. He remembers an epic, bootleg mead-fuelled rant at NYU when he stood on the couch and announced that St. Valentine was a martyr and a symbol of courtly love who “didn’t die so you could have your cheesy fucking Hallmark cards and inflated SoHo dinners” (Dylan filmed it and once whipped it out to show Lili; he retaliated by asking him sarcastically about the so-called ghost that haunted him at the Chateau Marmont).

But one look at her and suddenly, he’s sentimental. He wants to take every rose in BC and ship it to her. He comes close; he buys 72 of the last decent shipment coming into Vancouver. The florist is harried but relieved as she confirms that _yes, Mr. Sprouse, they’ll be waiting in Whistler, at the hotel room as requested._

“With the message?” he asks. He’d picked Yeats. _‘_ _For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.’_

“I’m afraid the message exceeds the character limit,” she replies.

“Two cards, then,” he says. “Write the message on two cards.”

Lili gasps as she reads it, she gasps again and again as she surveys the six dozen roses in front of her. The effect, he admits, is a little intense, as two huge vases dominate the room, sprays of deepest red. “But you _hate_ Valentine’s Day,” she says.

“That’s the point,” he replies. “See what you’ve done to me?”

Outside, he surrounds her with them as she lies placid and trusting and exquisite in the snow. He photographs her impossibly close - lens zoomed in, hovering over her. In case anyone’s still wondering whether she’s his.

...

For her birthday, he does it again. It’s not quite the showstopper he’d pulled out for Valentine’s, but it’s… _her_ . Unmistakably so. The pinks and the light pastel shades and the way that the vines are arranged organically, without stiffness or pretense. The poor florist - still reeling from February - had shown him roughly ten sketches before he agreed to one. _This, this one is like my love._

It’s sent to their place, and he has the distinct honour of crash-tackling her as she sleeps and dodging her pissed-off punches and carrying her over his shoulder into the living room, where the flowers are. She rubs her eyes and looks at it and puts her sleepy head against his chest, giggling drowsily. “They’re stunning,” she says with her eyes closed. “I’m sorry I tried to punch you.”

“It’s okay,” he says, pulling her close and crushing her into his arms. “It’s your birthday. You can do what you want.”

She says something in reply and he’s so fucking _proud_ of her for it, for taking the joke through to its natural, dirty conclusion. He laughs, and carries her back to their room, and into bliss. The flowers can wait.

...

He’s nervous as he boards the plane.

Not about flying - he’s far too used to that now. Their lives are nomadic, and home, after all, is not a place but a person. But he needs to know that it’s being delivered today.

“Was there a special occasion card you needed, Mr. Sprouse?” the florist asks. They’re practically friends now.

“No, no special occasion,” he replies. “She’ll just know.” He changes his mind. "Maybe just a blank one."

They’d been apart for a while, and after a few days of intentionally shutting themselves away from the world and immersing themselves in each other, he was flying out again. He’d had a terrible night of sleep. He always does, right before a forced separation, as if his eyes were trying to absorb as much of her as they can, before losing sight of her.

“I hate this,” he mumbles into Lili’s stomach the morning after, as his arms wrap themselves around her waist. He’s seated on their bed, and he only has one sock on, and he’s really cutting it close with time.

“I am so proud of you,” she says, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll miss you, but I am so, so proud of you.”

He hates watching himself on the big screen, hates being away from her, but he lives for the fire in her voice when she tells him that she believes in him. He remembers her crying when she first read the script he was sent, then the thrill he felt as she stepped into his hotel room in NOLA, just as he was reading the fourth in a series of letters she’d pre-written and bundled into his suitcase.

_Day 4. Dear Cole,_ it said, _the world doesn’t know yet, but I do, and sometimes I mourn the inevitable exposure of that secret, that you are far more incredible than they’ve had the chance to know..._

He wants her to know, while he’s away, that her unshakeable belief in him sustained him through those lonely, doubt-filled nights in New Orleans. That when he’d call her, nervous and edgy and smoking between takes, her voice was like a clear ringing bell that called him back to himself.

“Roses, carnations, larkspur…” the florist lists off Lili’s favourites. “Anything else to include in the arrangement?”

He thinks on it. He says he’ll get back to her. He researches for ten minutes, then calls again.

“Peonies,” he says. The florist sighs. Apparently it’s not the season for them.

But he insists.

As he watches his movie, a notification comes up on his phone. _Your delivery was received._ He smiles in the dark, and seconds later, another message arrives. In the photo, she’s holding the bouquet, a little teary.

The card this time was simple. No need for Yeats, just a little footnote for why he’d chosen a particular flower.

_Peonies,_ he’d written. _For honour._

He hopes she understands. What he’s honouring. Who he’s paying tribute to. Because as the credits roll on _Five Feet Apart,_ he thinks of _his_ own credit roll - the people in his corner, of which she is the most significant.

He imagines it - the final frame, white words on a black screen, set to a song.

_To my father, for teaching me hard work and never expecting its dues._

_To my brother, for building cities and empires with me._

And lastly, to the girl he sends flowers to.

_To Lili Pauline Reinhart. For my happiness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to gershwinn for the inspiration!
> 
> I am fairly sure those were peonies in Lili's bouquet, but if I am mistaken, I apologise to any botanists I've offended!
> 
> Hoping I don't have to explain the cheeky implication of the joke for Lili's birthday flowers.


	14. xiv. an overlap of galaxies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She points to stars on the horizon. She feels them in her gut. She feels them align.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a friend, on her birthday. Prompted by the word 'galaxies'.

“What’s that one?” she asked, her hand extending towards the horizon. Below them, the warm waters of the Pacific churned and kissed the sandy shores of Cuixmala Beach. Above, a canopy of stars stretched out, impossibly dense in this small, largely unlit retreat tucked away in a hidden corner of paradise.

And behind her, as promised, Cole held her against him, tight and safe. It was the only way he could get her to sit on the verandah outside their room, overlooking the cliff. It was a precarious drop to the bottom, and Lili had insisted that she was too much of a klutz to not have some sort of ballast keeping her grounded. He laughed, smirked, and said, _Lili, if you really just want me to touch you, just say so._

(She laughed along, but also realised that she _did_ mean what she said. If accidentally. He _did_ keep her grounded.)

“That one?” he asked, pointing to a group of stars, his voice velvety against her ear. She nodded.

“That one’s… hang on, let me see. I need my hand for this.” He stepped back a little, one hand letting go of her waist as he held a finger up the sky, making measurements she couldn’t understand. She jumped a little at the loss of contact, her hand gripping his other arm tightly.

He laughed. “Hey. You’re okay. I got you.”

“You _swear_?”

“Jesus, what is this, a blood oath?”

“ _Swear_ , Cole. Don’t do that thing where you pretend to let go.”

“Lili, first of all, that’s a douche move,” he replied. “Secondly, I’m not letting you go.”

Her body stilled, before she turned to smile at him. “Nice line there, stud.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know what I said, and I meant it. _Both_ connotations.” He rolled his eyes as she laughed and kissed his cheek. “Now hush and let me figure out if that one’s Cassiopeia or not. It’s been years since I took Observational Astronomy.”

“You took Observational Astronomy?” she said, always thrilled to hear bits and pieces from his old life. “I thought you majored in Geographical Information Systems?”

“Well, _hey,_ someone memorised my degree.” He smirked at her, teasing. “What a stalker. It was an elective.”

“Oh, sure. This coming from someone who unearthed my Scientastic video. That’s a _deep_ dive on YouTube, buddy.”

“Yeah, well I _really_ liked you,” he replied, feigning woundedness. It was her turn to roll her eyes. “And, yes, I am right - that _is_ Cassiopeia. Queen of the Night.”

“Pretty name.”

“Mmm.”

Lili squinted at the horizon. “It’s kinda shaped like a zig-zag.”

“She’s meant to be sitting down, I think.”

“Ah. I kinda see it.”

They both fell quiet. His arm went back around her, his chin planted on her shoulder as she hummed a low tune and swung her legs.

“Would you go back to it, you think?” she asked, after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “Archaeology?”

Cole sighed. “I don’t know. It was a passion, obviously, but… it also feels like a door closed. Or closing, at least.” He shrugged. “Even then, so much has already changed. The technology evolves every year. I’d have to start all over again.”

“Would that be scary?” She reached up, stroking his cheek, which was warm.

“I mean, I’ve done it before,” he said. “But… I like where I am now.”

There was the temptation to make light of that, like, _really?_ _Here, Cole? Here in a 5-star luxury resort in the middle of nowhere in Mexico? Well, duh._ But Lili knew what he meant. And the way that he wrapped his arms more tightly around her, she knew that he’d put a lot of thought and heart into what he just said.

Their meeting was an overlap of galaxies. She’d had a strange journey to _Riverdale_ , being given a second chance at an audition after getting knocked back the first time. _He,_ on the other, had given himself no more than a week to get back into acting, and then he'd landed the part, just like that.

Somehow, in the tangle of their collective plans, through the most transient of windows, they’d met. And even when they’d both vowed to themselves not to be involved with anyone in this next chapter of their lives, there was no resisting the pull between them. They _had_ to give in. It was like a black hole of fate, consuming them both in each other’s gravity, leaving them with no choice but to give in.

“Me, too,” she said, turning, giving him a look heavy with meaning, heavy with need. “I... like where you are. Here.”

His forehead touched hers. _This never gets old,_ she thought. The intensity of his eyes. The way his face took on a steely resolve right before he kissed her. As if he was doing something heavily serious and significant. He would probably argue that he was.

She reached her hand up to tangle her fingers in his hair, bringing him closer. As their lips met in the middle, she imagined Cassiopeia exploding and falling like confetti into the ocean below. It was what her insides felt like as he pulled her in for a bruising, passionate kiss - like too much luminous light poured into roaring waves. Like a burst of star-born energy swirling in deep, powerful waters.

They broke apart, but Cole held out his hand so he could pull her back over. The suggestion was clear: they weren’t staying out here any longer.

“I like where I am,” he repeated later that night, as she blew out the candles, the air still thick with smoke and love. “I like where I’m going. With you.”


End file.
